


A Little More Than Admiration

by mustachio



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustachio/pseuds/mustachio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darim is crushing on his father's best friend. Hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little More Than Admiration

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic originally written for the Assassin's Creed Kink Meme.

It starts as an intense admiration for the one armed man – nothing more, nothing less. It's innocent enough, not shameful at all, unless one considers admiring one's father's best friend more than his own father shameful. He can't help it, though. When he walks in on his father and Malik sparring - or finishing, rather - and sees the final blow which sends his father to the floor, blade just inches from his throat, he can't help but to admire the man who made taking down the Grand Master look so easy. The final move, the only one he saw, was so graceful, so effortless, so strong, so surprising that it doesn't take much else to inspire such strong feelings in him. For anyone else, the missing limb would have been a major hindrance, world have prevented them from continuing on with this lifestyle, but it is not so for Malik. No, the man seems to only have gotten stronger as the years pass - though he wouldn't really know much about the first few years, the years before his birth. Briefly, Darim wonders if it should have been Malik, not his father, who took the title of Grand Master. Clearly he is able to best his father in a match, and he has clearly overcome more hardship in his life than his father has. Perhaps it's wrong to think that way, but it seems to him that it is his father who should have been the second in command, not Malik.

When he returns to the room he shares with his brother, he's eager to tell of what he saw. He recounts the story exactly as he remembers it, but his brother doesn't share his enthusiasm. Sef doesn't say it, but he does a terrible job of hiding his disappointment at the end of it. He doesn't want to hear a story of their father losing against Malik; he wants to hear one of his victory. A small pout forms on Darim's face when he thinks of his brother's less than enthusiastic reaction; it was not the response he’d been hoping for. Perhaps Sef would have had to see it to understand why he was so impressed with Malik's victory. The subject isn't brought up again and the night ends shortly after, the only other words exchanged are goodnights and wishes for the other to sleep well.

That night he dreams of the fight he saw between the two men. He dreams of the grace, the focus, the skill that Malik has in battle, and what it might be like if he had even some semblance of that type of ability. His father is good, clearly, but Malik is different. In his mind, Malik is better. The dream leaves him with an odd feeling when he wakes, he's excited, almost giddy, and he can't wait for the day's training to begin, can't wait for a chance to come just a little closer to the skill level of the dai he admires so much. He dresses quickly, eats quickly, time isn't moving fast enough for him and he isn't quite sure why a dream of one man he's known his whole life would leave him with such energy. Something in him has apparently changed in the time since his viewing of his father and Malik.

He throws a quick glance to the mirror, no physical change of which to speak other than his freshly cleaned clothes. Not a spot of dirt on them as there was the day before, but still that same dull gray that all novices are required to wear. It's an offending color, he thinks. A color that he can't imagine Malik ever wearing - not with his current skill. He can't imagine the older man ever being on such a low level. He sweeps his eyes over the rest of his reflection, moving on from his clothes. His lips are very visibly dry and cracked, probably as a result of his constant biting at them when he's nervous. He runs his tongue over the chapped skin, lingering for a moment on the right side, where a very distinctive scar would be if he were his father. He wonders if he had a scar there, would it make Malik pay him any more attention than he currently does? It’s a strange thought, but Darim thinks he would like to look a little more like his father if it would earn him more time with his father’s friend. Thinking about it, there really wouldn’t be much to change. In terms of his appearance, there could be no doubt that he is truly his father’s son.

Sef enters the room and barely even look in his direction. He watches for a moment as his brother nearly falls over while putting his pants on, clearly still wanting to be in bed. Apparently his dreams did not leave him as energized as Darim’s did.

“If you do not hurry, you’ll be late for training.”

Sef only gives him a tired look in response and continues to struggle with dressing himself.

"Since when do you care about that?"

Darim just shrugs and walks out of the room to where all of the novices are supposed to meet. In truth, he doesn't care about being late to training so much as he does about possibly seeing Malik before he leaves for Jerusalem as he does every once in a while. It has been a long time since he has actually been assigned there, but he had set up an order when he was and he does what he can to make sure that order remains.

He does see Malik for a short few seconds. They are too far away to exchange any sort of words and he seems to be too occupied with whatever his father is saying to even look over in his direction and he feels an unreasonable jealousy rise up in him because of it. He tries not to linger on that feeling because it really is just that - unreasonable. Malik is his father's best friend, his father's -- and this truly is a terrible phrase to use in describing Malik of all people, but it is true nonetheless -- right hand man, of course his attention is going to be on his father.

The moment training actually begins is one he’s thankful for. It seems his father has taken a moment away from his conversation to watch them and when Darim looks over he gives a small nod in greeting. Darim returns it, but he’s more interested in watching Malik, who has also turned his attention to the novices. This is a good day for them to watch, he thinks; they would be training with crossbows today and what better way to show his ability than with the weapon he’s most skilled with? Not for the first time today, he’s thankful for his good luck at the way things are turning out today. He would be the first one up today, and it seems this is enough to distract the two men from whatever it is they were going to do before. From the corner of his eye he can see them watching him, waiting to see how he would do. He does not watch them for long, though. He can’t afford to watch their reactions if he wants his performance to be his best – and it is.

He is most certainly his father’s son – in both looks and ability. Not one of his arrows misses its target and not one of them hits anywhere other than the dead center. He feels a surge of pride swell up in his chest for his accomplishment, but refrains from letting it show on his face. He is still very aware of his father and Malik watching him and the last thing he wants is to come across as arrogant. When he turns to them again, they have turned away and have started speaking again. He wonders what they're saying, wonders if it has to do with him and gets his answer when they turn to look at him again. His father looks thoughtful, as though he's considering something, but that's all he can tell before both of them turn and walk away. He frowns a bit at the lack of response towards his performance, but does nothing more than that. They saw what he is capable of and that would be enough for now.

Later that day, when training has ended he and a few other novices are instructed to go to his father's office, though they are not told the reason behind it. They are only told that it is important and they should not keep the Grand master waiting. He is at his desk when they get there, looking at a few papers resting there. It's strange to see his father in such a formal setting. It's not the first time he's been in here, of course, but the feeling doesn't change no matter how many times he finds himself staring at his father, not as a father, but as the leader of their Order. When Altair, because in moments like these it's hard for Darim to really acknowledge him as his father, finally looks up his expression is serious, almost intimidating and for the other two who aren't as familiar with him, it probably is. There would be a mission for them in Jerusalem. Someone influential to the Templar order would be there and it would be beneficial to their own Order if they could get any information available out of him - and the obvious assassination of the man. It sounds like an easy enough task, probably would be if they really tried hard enough, but it seems unusual to Darim that his father would be sending them alone to do it. Typically his father would send at least one higher ranked assassin to go with the novices on a mission like this. When the other two leave, he stays behind.

"Father, why are you sending us on this mission? Isn't this something you would usually send someone else to do."

There's a pause before his father answers, and Darim wonders if he shouldn't have asked.

"If you are successful in this mission, I think it is time you took the Leap."

His breath catches in his throat and he has no response other than a nod and a widening of his eyes. Was this what his father had been discussing with Malik? Was Malik in on the decision to make him a full fledged assassin? His heart rate picks up at this thought and he can't help but to feel extremely proud of himself for this. Had he really impressed his father that much? Impressed Malik? That thought makes him undeniable happy and he leaves his father's office with a small smile on his face. He would have to make sure his performance on this mission was equally as impressive, especially if they were to be in Jerusalem. Their time there would correspond with Malik's and he would hate to have to report back to him with a less than impressive story of his less than impressive performance.

They leave immediately and arrive in Jerusalem that night. It's cold and when they reach the bureau he is grateful for the warmth it provides. It is decided that it is late enough that they might as well stay the night and carry out their mission in the morning. Malik informs them of the spare room in the back, tells them that there are blankets and pillows in the closet there, but doesn't look up from his map. Darim takes that moment to look over the man. He is far from unattractive, not the best looking man ever, but far from unattractive, especially for someone of his age. Darim licks his lips a bit when he thinks this, a nervous habit he developed at some point in his life. He trails his eyes over to Malik's one arm, admiring the muscles there that developed from so many years of having to take over for the missing one. He is brought out of his thoughts shortly after that one. Malik has finally looked up, a slightly annoyed expression on his face.

"What is it, novice?"

Darim mumbles and apology for staring and retreats to the room without another word. He's embarrassed that he'd been caught staring, but more than that be's disappointed at the title. If Malik is still calling him a novice, then did he not really agree with the decision to make them real assassins? That causes him more pain than it should. He'd been hoping that Malik had actually been impressed with his ability and when he thinks back on every other thought he'd had today, he begins to think that maybe the intense admiration is a bit more than that.

They leave early the next morning and split up to try and see if they can't get information about their target around the city. Darim does find someone, someone who is apparently close to the Templar and he gets the necessary information out of him easily before making sure he'd never be able to say a word about this to anyone. They meet back at the bureau to come up with a plan and after explaining it to Malik, receive their white feather signifying his satisfaction with their idea. The plan was largely Darim's idea and the apparent satisfaction of the dai makes some of the lost pride from last night come back to him. 

When they leave it's already midday, and not for the first time in his life he wishes the traditional assassin garb wasn't so heavy. It made everything so much harder and the hood hardly did much to keep the sun's heat from getting to him despite the rays not hitting him quite as hard. They find their target easily enough, infiltrate the building, and listen in on the conversation. There is talk of a letter being sent elsewhere, and containing the information that they'd been sent to retrieve. One of his companions goes off after the courier and Darim decides that he would be the one to take care of the assassination. The remaining group member would cover him.

He doesn't manage to sneak up on him as discreetly as he would have liked and at the very last moment, when Darim's blade is about to plunge into his back he turns and counters. The ensuing fight is short, though it isn't entirely easy, least of all when an archer on the rooftops manages to get an arrow in his thigh just before one of the other novices takes him out. He accomplishes his goal despite this, thankfully, and they get out of there as quickly as possible. The way back to the bureau is hard thanks to his wound and never has he been more grateful for something than he is when they finally do make it back - pain from the drop in aside.

That night his two companions ride back to Masyaf without him. They are uninjured, but the wound at his leg is enough to make riding too uncomfortable to be worth it when he is at no shortage of time. Malik changes his bandages, grumbling about having to take care of the result of a novice's careless mistake once again after so long. The location of the wound means that Malik's hand is dangerously close to his crotch and he is thankful that his body does not seem to be working against him by showing any sort of physical reaction. He swallows in an attempt to relieve some of his tension, but it is a sad attempt. It does nothing for him and even when Malik has finished and gone back to his maps and Darim has retreated to the spare room he can feel the heat of Malik's hand on his skin. He feels it long after and Malik's warm breath that hits his neck thanks to the close proximity as he grumbles on. Eventually, the memories of those sensations turn into other, far more erotic thoughts. They are thoughts of Malik's hand touching the area only slightly higher than his hand actually was, thoughts of their clothes discarded on the floor somewhere, and mouths pressed together -- hot, rough, hungry. These thoughts elicit a physical response.

There isn't much thought put into his next actions. Not the removal of his clothes, not the placement of his hand on his cock, not the hard, rough strokes he gives himself, or the bucking of his hips upwards into his hand. It's just something he does, and he doesn't feel much in the way of regret for starting this. He imagines his hand is the Dai's, that the callouses on his hand are the callouses on Malik's, and the image of the older man touching him like that makes this feel ten times better. He is slow at first - he doesn't want to finish too soon - and it takes all he has to keep himself quite, to swallow the moans that threaten to escape. His pace is torturous and he is torn between loving it and needing more. He bucks his hips up, jerking in such a way that would bring even a little more friction. He runs a thumb over the head, fails to keep a whine of pleasure quite, but pays no mind to it. His pumps get faster now, faster and faster and faster and oh god it's never fast enough, never enough friction, but god does it feel good. He squeezes, once softly, the next time harder and it's the latter that gets a loud, throaty moan out of him. It isn't much longer until he's done, his climax hitting hard, his hand urging it on with a few more strokes and a jerk of his hips upward into it in a desperate attempt to get all the sensation he can. 

His fingers are sticky with his own seed, but he can't be bothered to clean it up right away, can't be bothered to move, or open his eyes that had been squeezed shut as he rode out his orgasm. He simply lies there, shameless, with his legs spread, and - without even realizing it - whispering the name of the man he'd been imagining as he worked - a man who does not happen to be deaf. Malik hears the moans, the sound of his name on Darim's lips, but he does not approach the room. He is not stupid and he can tell what the Grand Master's son was doing, but decides not to say anything until the next morning. The boy had already been embarrassed enough tonight at having been the only one in his group to come back with an injury, Malik would spare him further embarrassment for now.

The next morning is relatively uneventful, with few words being spoken until Darim is ready to leave.

"I will be going back to Masyaf now. Thank you for helping me last night."

"Are you referring to your wound or for providing something for you to fantasize about?"

Darim freezes where he stood, his face heating up and becoming noticeably flushed. In the moment he hadn't realized that the sounds he hadn't managed to keep to himself were loud enough for Malik to hear, and he certainly hadn't realized that Malik had heard him say his name. He's glad to be facing away from the man, though he knows that he probably isn't facing him, either. He stands there for what feels like years, but must have only been seconds before Malik speaks again. He's grateful for the continued talking at least, for he has no answer to the previous comments and perhaps this will be about something unrelated, something much less embarrassing.

"Since your mission was a success, you will no longer be a novice, will you?" Darim almost breathes a sigh of relief - this isn't about what he'd been doing last night, he won't have to think about it any more - but his reason for thinking that way doesn't last long. Not with the following words. "You will want to work being more discreet. If your moaning was any indication, it is no wonder that your target heard you before you were able to stick your blade through his throat."

He swallows hard, clenching and unclenching his fists, and his feet still frozen in their spot. If it were really possible, he is inclined to believe his death would be one of embarrassment rather than old age or a mission gone wrong.

"Well? I thought you were going back. If you are hoping for me to teach you how to keep yourself quiet it will have to wait. I am busy at the moment."

Darim nearly falls over when Malik says that.

"W-what?"

Malik is looking at him with a quirked eyebrow, but other than that his face lacks any telling expression. Darim prays that he is telling some sort of terrible joke.

"Did I stutter? Now go on. Altair will be waiting for you. I will be returning to Masyaf tomorrow."

He nearly trips over his own feet on his way out. Apparently it was not a joke.


End file.
